


You're My Moon

by Starlithorizon



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: AU, Car Accidents, I promise, I'm Sorry, M/M, There will be a happy ending, Writer, don't fear any angst you discover, i genuinely can't think of how else to tag this, like things get bad, major character deaths sort of, psychiatrist, the sort of is what makes it better, we'll find out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil Palmer is a talented writer crafting a world for the internet. When that world begins to leak out of his head and into his reality, he fears that he's going insane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Could Pull Back (for You)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by ["My Moon" by Mary Lambert](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDf2JZXrCsQ). It's my ultimate Cecilos song.  
> I've seen lots of headcanons and read lots of fics wherein Night Vale is all a figment of Cecil's imagination, but I saw [one absolutely fascinating and beautiful fic by Elvamire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/941236) where Cecil's delusions and memories of Night Vale leached into his other life, and there was really no telling which was reality and which was the dream. That sort of inspired this, but not quite enough for me to say that it did, but check it out regardless.  
> Anyway, I feel that it's important to clarify that this isn't a story about all of it being in Cecil's head. That's all I'm gonna say, but I think the distinction is important.  
> Also, I feel like I _may_ have taken some liberties with their characters to make the story work, but it'll work out somehow, with the beings we have all come to know and love and fear.  
>  So why are you still reading this? Cast your eyes to the main text, you fools.  
> Just kidding, I love you. All of you. Including the You you that's reading this.

He sat at his desk, tapping fingers like a heartbeat against the number pad of his keyboard. The cursor blinked like a second hand, ticking away time, probably laughing as it flashed in and out of existence. He huffed a violent exhale, upping the tempo of his keyboard tapping. He had only two days before he had to update his site, and even if no one actually read a thing he wrote, he cared about getting them out on time. Even if no one cared, Night Vale depended on him.

So he tapped out the stories of a town in the middle of the desert surrounded by something very like magic, or maybe science gone wrong, or perhaps the will of forgotten gods. All he knew was that this place, ancient and forgotten, depended on him. Eventually, inspiration struck and he found the words spilling out of his fingertips, sprawling lazily across the keyboard like a floating cat. City elections were happening soon, and he thought it was important to report as accurately as possible.

Slowly, the words shaped themselves, coming from some place in the back of his head he barely understood. He was grateful for it all the same.

Finally, he finished the piece and hit the publish button, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. The sun had gone down, and his coffee had grown cold, but the citizens of Night Vale continued to exist, at least on strangers' screens.

He'd never really wondered at his ability to craft an entire city with just his imagination, the characters springing fully formed to life. He wasn't the type to question such things, honestly; it felt too much like biting the hand that fed him. He was just grateful for it.

When he went back to his site the next day to check the views and comment, he was violently surprised at the thick, black boxes masking some of the words he'd written. There was white text slathered over those boxes, saying things like REDACTED and THOUGHT CRIME.

He hadn't made those.

When he went back to edit the post, the text was unaltered, censored only on the final post. He checked on his phone, and they remained.

This happened with the next post, and a creeping feeling like something trying to fit itself over his skin began at the base of his skill, spreading out from there.

When he slept, he had vivid dreams of his imagined Night Vale, and when he woke, they didn't fade like dreams normally did.

Twice, he'd woken with dust on the shoes he had _not_ gone to bed wearing.

Some of the mail he received was even more alarming. There were letters addressed to him from his characters, mostly Old Woman Josie, all from Night Vale. There were fliers for Big Rico's pizza and the CVS in Night Vale.

Once, when turning on his car radio, he found himself screaming at the sound of a dimly familiar voice ( _Greg Bennett_ , his mind supplied. _He does this show_ ) pouring from the speakers between frantic last words, counting them down.

Like any other sane person, Cecil lived in blank terror that he was going insane, but he didn't do anything about it, for fear of learning that he actually was losing it. Instead, he kept his horror tucked neatly in the middle of his throat where it sometimes choked him, but it kept people from looking at him too strangely.

* * *

As he perused the bread aisle of the local Ralph's, maybe a little lost for all the selection before him, Cecil accidentally walked right into a very warm and very solid body. Said solid body had not only knocked the breath out of him, but had stumbled to the point of losing its balance, sprawling out across the gleaming tile floor. Cecil's face was on fire as he apologized profusely.

"Oh, God, I am _so_ sorry," he choked out, lending a hand to the beautiful man he had accidentally bowled over. This man had the most incredible hair Cecil had ever seen, lush and black with only the faintest dusting of grey at the temples. The man gave Cecil a crooked grin, and Cecil's blush became a wildfire.

He was pretty sure he was in love with a complete stranger.

"No harm, no foul," the stranger said, smile widening just a bit. His teeth, so much like a military cemetery, shone in the fluorescent lights. "Are you okay? I heard you wheezing a bit."

"I'm fine!" Cecil very nearly shouted, chewing on his bottom lip for just a moment before asking, "Are _you_ okay?"

"I might be a little bruised, but I've had worse. Don't worry about it. I'm Carlos, by the way."

Carlos was holding out a hand, and Cecil was doing his best not to memorize the cracks or creases or neatly-trimmed nails or the way his palms were nearly the exact shade as the backs of his hand or the way his skin reflected the light so beautifully or the way—

"Uh, Cecil," the writer said quickly, shaking the stranger's hand. It was warm.

"So you're sure you're okay, Cecil?" the kind man pressed, with his perfect hair and perfect teeth and perfect hands.

"Y-yeah," Cecil said. He hated how his voice shook, but it was unavoidable in the presence of someone so _perfect_.

"Good to hear."

Another tilted grin, a small wave, and a "See you around" rather than goodbye, and Cecil found himself alone in the bread aisle, clutching a loaf of rye bread for dear life, face hotter than the core of the sun.

* * *

As with any life, Cecil's had bits of brightness and bits of darkness. If he was being really honest, though, the brightness was more like the occasional star shining in the night sky.

His life felt like it was partially stars, mostly void.

He continued to think of Carlos, beautiful Carlos, the point where he'd accidentally spun him into a story. Carlos the Scientist, perfect and beautiful, had been wary and curious in equal measure, fascinated by the peculiarities of this small desert town. Cecil could hardly blame him; it _was_ fascinating.

Again, he found bits of his story censored by who-knew-what, with moving bits of static over the parts about the dog park and Josie's angels this time. He went back to the editing screen and thought for a moment before shaping more words around the ones that had been lost to madness. Pleas to avoid the dog park, demands to not even _think_ about the dog park. Sharp reminders that angels weren't real. This time, the staticky censors were removed, and his original words were there, unaltered but for the absurd reminders surrounding them. He got more and more mail for Night Vale, and his radio received shows that _did not exist_ , and soon, he started actually seeing things that he had made up.

There were angels (which did not exist (no, _seriously_ )) walking casually wandering around the grocery store, ten feet tall and spectacular and horrifying. There were hooded figures skulking around and somehow looking displeased with life, despite the fact that he absolutely refused to even look at them.

Figments of his imagination were beginning to swarm his reality, and he was terrified about what that might mean. Delusions were never a good sign.

With shaking hands, he tapped new words into his computer, a plea in the shape of a Google search, beginning with the word _psychiatrist_.


	2. And I Am but the Sea

He sat in the worn leather chair in the warm waiting room, eyes roving across the old anatomical prints on the walls and the lush green plants perched on end tables. There were magazines strewn across every surface like in any other waiting room, but there was also a tall bookshelf on the opposite wall filled with worn old tomes. Cecil saw a few contemporary bestsellers commingling with classics, old obscure favorites, and nonfiction books on subjects he'd never even thought about being curious about.

The receptionist, a young woman with a upturned nose and big eyes, tapped her pen against the top of her desk as she scrolled on the computer. She was probably looking at Facebook or Twitter or something, if the occasional bursts of typing were any indication. Cecil thought her name was Dana. He rather liked that name; it would be good to store away for an intern.

And just as he allowed Night Vale to drip back into his mind, he came to understand that giving it anything at all was like giving it permission to swallow him whole. He suddenly leaped to his feet, leaned against the desk, and plucked the pen from her hand.

"Hey!" she cried, brows knitting in annoyance and concern. "What are you doing?"

"Don't you know these are illegal?" he gasped, tossing the offending item aside. Just as Dana opened her mouth to say _something_ , the pen was sucked into nothingness, with a small, black card left spinning in its place. The pair of them stood their with their jaws hanging open in surprise. Cecil's was undercut with nausea and horror, but he did his best to stem them both as he crouched down to investigate the card. He picked it up with trembling fingers and read the stark white text.

_Thanks for being a good citizen! Please return this card to your nearest SSP officer for a stamp on your Alert Citizen Card. ☺_

Cecil stared at the card for far too long, letting the black and white blur into something that wasn't at all within either spectrum.

Behind him, a door opened and a voice called out, "Mr. Palmer?"

Cecil jumped to his feet, eyes wide as planets as he whirled to face the psychiatrist.

" _Carlos_?" he choked out, mouth hanging open in the most unattractive fashion.

"Oh, Cecil! From the store! Hello."

"Is this...allowed?" Cecil asked, voice tremulous. He was a bit ashamed to admit that he'd sort of fallen in love with the Carlos he'd woven into Night Vale, and to see the inspiration was jarring at best. To see him _here_ was humiliating.

"We've only met the once," Carlos reminds him gently. "But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can absolutely recommend another psychiatrist to you."

Cecil took a quick, sharp breath in an attempt to steady himself.

"It's all right," he said slowly. He blinked, perhaps a bit owlishly, and repeated, "It's all right."

"Okay. Well, if you're ready..."

Carlos gestured into his office, and Cecil followed on numb legs, the card still hanging heavy from between his fingertips.

* * *

"It it makes you any more comfortable, we can refer to each other by our surnames," Carlos suggested.

"I don't know, Mr. Palmer sounds a bit...sterile."

"If you insist, Cecil."

"And Dr. Mendoza even more so."

"It's your call."

Cecil licked his lips, eyes flickering around the office, fingertips drumming together as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

"Look, I'm not trying to push you, Cecil, but we're on your dollar and you haven't spoken in ten minutes," the doctor said eventually, and Cecil had to frown. Ten minutes? They'd only just finished discussing names! "You were the one to make the appointment after all."

All of this was said so gently, like Carlos was afraid of spooking Cecil. He was tempted to think that it was sweet, especially as he was sitting there in this plus office, admiring the doctor's flawless hair, but he knew better. He was a patient. He was _unstable_. Unstable people must be approached with caution, lest they snap and do...something. Cecil wasn't sure what he might potentially do, but he _had_ fairly attacked Dana over a pen. But then...

"I think I'm going insane," he spat out. "But I don't _know_ if I am, and it's _horrible_ , Carlos."

"Why do you think this?" Carlos asked softly. Cecil closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair.

"I'm having delusions, I think."

"When did they start?"

"I write on the internet, right? I have this story online, and I update it twice a month. It's about this town I made up, and...about six months ago, I started... I started getting mail from this place."

Carlos frowned, his beautiful and full lips forming a thin, concerned line. Cecil started fishing through the messenger bag he'd long since slung across the back of the chair, drawing out piles and piles of paper, all of the junk and letters he'd received from a town he had made up. He thrust them all into Carlos's lap and told him, words all tangling together in his haste, about the radio playing Night Vale shows and the angels and the hooded figures and the censored posts.

"And then, just before you called my name, I found this."

He drew the black card from his shirt pocket, holding it out to Carlos. His hands were shaking violently by now, and he ended up dropping the card before Carlos could take it.

Carlos studied the material closely, frowning deeply as his eyes scraped across the words, the specials, the deals, the stupid fanmail from people _who weren't real_.

"What, exactly, are you trying to prove with this?" Carlos asked slowly. His voice was thick and lazy, almost as though Cecil was hearing it through a vat of honey. "You came in here telling me that you think you're going insane, and you present proof against that. I must admit that I'm very confused, Cecil."

"I need you to tell me if it's real," Cecil hissed. "I need to know."

Carlos frowned, perfect brows knitting together in a perfect portrait of confusion. Or perhaps it was concern.

"These are all real, Cecil," the doctor said kindly.

"And where are they from?"

"Night Vale, Arizona. There's a zip code and everything."

Cecil sucked in a sharp breath, the violent inhalation slicing through his teeth as he gripped the arms of the chair for dear life. It was as though he was expecting the world to tip forward and that chair was all he had to keep from sliding into the ether, solely be the grace of skin stretched white over knuckles in terror.

"Why are you so afraid of this?" Carlos asked, neatly stacking the materials Cecil had given to him.

"Because _I made Night Vale up_. It isn't real, but I've been getting things like this for _months_."

"And what if it's a prank?"

Cecil shook his head violently.

"That doesn't explain some of the things I've seen. There are angels walking around town, for God's sake!"

"Perhaps they're people dressed like angels?"

"Not these," Cecil said sharply. "Ten feet tall, with enormous metallic wings, a dozen eyes and smiles that never go away—it's not _possible_ to dress like these angels. And how would that explain this card I found today? Ask Dana about it, she was there!"

"I don't think you're suffering any delusions, Cecil, but I think coming back next week might be a good idea."

Cecil nodded even as Carlos spoke, unsure whether he was spurred by the dark hair or the shining eyes or the madness curled up in the base of his skull. Regardless, he found himself agreeing to a second appointment a week later. He gave Carlos the address to his site so that he might be able to see what he was writing about, and he left with frustration buzzing under his skin, coiled with an electric sense of terror as he saw a single, glowing cloud scraping across the clear blue sky.


	3. Interlude: Staring Up At You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little Carlos-centric update as I struggle with the next chapter. Ugh.

As he scrolled down the website, thumb smearing oil and prints over the screen of his phone, Carlos decided that he was definitely impressed with Mr. Palmer's writing skills. A creeping sense of fear slid down his spine, inspired by the beautiful and eerie prose sprawled across the simple white background. _Welcome to Night Vale_ , as written by Cecil, was fantastic. It was clear to the psychiatrist that it was becoming far too real to the author, or that he was possibly getting far too entrenched in a town in which he did not live. Whatever the problem, it made for fascinating reading, and it made Carlos worry.

That was alarming in and of itself, truth be told. He felt like he was becoming too involved with Cecil, despite having met him only twice. He saw the horror dawning in his eyes when Carlos had admitted to all of the mail being real. He had seen the fear and concern in Dana's eyes when Carlos had later interrogated her, showing her the card. The story she told, of Cecil snatching the pen from her hand and throwing it aside like it was dangerous, had made Carlos very uncomfortable.

As he read on, slowly getting caught up with the writer, he noted that a new character had been introduced, bearing a very familiar name.

 _Carlos, perfect Carlos_ , began to make its way into the stories, and the owner of the name found himself blushing hotly as he determined that the first mention of this flawless scientist was the day after Cecil had knocked him over in the grocery store.

That might prove a problem.

Over the next few weeks, the appointments slowly morphed from Cecil's terror that he was going mad to Cecil trading answers for Carlos's own answers. They began to learn about each other, and that brilliant, eloquent, fey creature he worried so deeply about lit up as they talked.

Soon, the appointments were no longer about Cecil's sanity or well-being.

Approximately two months into things, Carlos began the appointment by handing Cecil a bright green folder filled with information and faces and names and price ranges.

"What's this?" Cecil asked, thumbing through the stack of paper.

"Referrals," Carlos said. "For different psychiatrists. I... I don't think I can keep seeing you in this capacity."

For a moment, brief yet terrible, Carlos watched as his patient's face fell.

"Can I ask why?" he asked, voice gone so soft. He looked so fragile, tucked up as he was into the expansive and comfortable leather chair across from the doctor. Carlos smiled gently, afraid that any sudden movements might shatter this beautiful and forlorn creature he'd lately found himself thinking about. Because he had to admit that the man had quite effortlessly infiltrated his thoughts, drifting in at the most inopportune moments. Occasionally, he flooded Carlos's mind at the most opportune moments, but it was hardly professional for him to admit such a thing.

"I'd like to see you in a different fashion," he said. "In a more...personal capacity."

Cecil's face was slow to light up, like dawn taking its time, like clouds taking absolutely forever to reveal the sun. So Carlos did something perhaps a bit rash.

"Cecil, would you like to get dinner sometime?"

There was a long pause, and all Carlos heard was the ticking of the clock on his desk. It stepped forward methodically and normally, but it skipped a few seconds, the ticking moving faster to make up for the missed time. That clock had been broken for weeks, but he kept forgetting to replace it.

"Yes," Cecil said quietly. And just like that, the clouds over his face broke and light poured fourth in the form of the biggest smiled Carlos had ever seen. "Absolutely!"

And then, "Is this a date?"

Carlos grinned and Cecil seemed to swoon a bit.

"If you want it to be."

If Carlos had been a braver man, he would have kissed the incandescent smile on Cecil's face right then and there.

* * *

They went to an Italian restaurant called Gino's, and while Carlos was more than a little awkward, Cecil was charming and eloquent as ever. They got to talking about Night Vale, not as a sign of madness, but as the impressive creative feat that it really was. Over the bowing edge of his wine glass, Carlos watched Cecil talk about this town with such passion, hands arcing over the table and swirling through the air to make points. He talked about his characters like they were real people, and given the evidence, they very well might have been.

"So how far are you into the story?" Cecil asked, slicing off a bit of his eggplant parmesan with surgical precision.

"I got caught up yesterday, actually," Carlos said lightly, twirling his fork in the center of his pasta dish. Cecil nodded at that, looking pleased until some realization struck him and he was left sitting there, face bright red and eyes wide with horror.

"You know about the scientist," he practically groaned, letting his head flop back as he made noises that spoke volumes about his displeasure at this information. "How _embarrassing_!"

Carlos chucked kindly. If they had been more familiar, he would have reached out and taken Cecil's hand. As it was, he took another bite of his pasta.

"I might be tempted to admit that he's my favorite character," Carlos laughed.

Cecil groaned again, but there was a grin tugging at the edges of his mouth. That slight bowing encouraged a broad grin to unfurl across Carlos's own face, and he found the courage to press hesitant fingertips to the back of Cecil's hand. The hot red blush across his face was instantaneous, sweeping across his cheekbones as he brought his head forward to look at Carlos straight on.

"So you liked it?" he asked, voice so soft and delicate.

"Definitely," Carlos assured him. "Absolutely."

And from there, the date progressed with brightness fizzing in their veins, most likely borne on the wings of Cabernet and that perfectly ordinary giddiness of a first date.

If Carlos pressed too swift a kiss against Cecil's cheek at the end of the night, Cecil was smiling much too broadly to mention it.

And if Carlos saw the ten-foot-tall being made of eyes and black light and trumpet sounds, he certainly wasn't going to be the one to bring it up. After all, angels did not exist.


	4. And They Don't Know Why I Love You Like I Do

As Cecil lay in the hushed darkness of his bedroom, he thought about the tangle that was his sanity. He'd started seeing a new psychiatrist, at Carlos's suggestion, and while she was very good at what she did, he didn't really like the predatory gleam that shone in her eyes when he started describing the tenuous unreality of Night Vale to her.

There was something in that thought, something that shone bright and warm in the hollow of his collarbone. Whereas Dr. Hidge was far too eager to dissect and medicate Cecil's supposed hallucinations away, Carlos at the very least seemed to entertain the idea that they might be real. Of course, that could be due to how much he liked Cecil (definitely a lovely thought), but there was a chance that he didn't dismiss any of it because it was real. Carlos gave Cecil a thread of hope to cling to, one that said that he might not be going crazy after all. Damn if that wasn't the most comforting idea in the world. It still wouldn't explain why elements of Night a Vale were cropping up out of nowhere, but his own mental well-being was at least a little more important than that.

As Night Vale began to leach further and further into this world, Cecil found it harder and harder to maintain a hold on reality, and Carlos's gentle understanding was rapidly growing more and more necessary. Carlos, lovely Carlos, who had started asking Cecil where the danger was and sucked in a fearful breath when he _saw_. Carlos, who held his hand as they walked from Gino's to Cecil's car. Carlos, who had pressed a featherlight kiss to his cheek before running into his home.

 _Carlos_.

So Cecil continued to write, and Dr. Hidge continued to resemble a predatory bird, and Carlos continued to be a rock in a tossing sea of, masters of us all, _everything_. He was unbearably grateful, and perhaps a little afraid that he was starting to rely too heavily on Carlos.

But still, they swirled on through life. They went on another date, they met briefly at Starbucks, they texted and called and instant messaged like high-schoolers. They spun like planets around the sun, like moons around planets, like atoms around each other. It was all Cecil could do to keep from writing about Carlos every other paragraph, or from kissing him senseless every time they were together, or kissing him at all.

He'd expected a good night kiss after their first date, and gotten gentle lips against his cheek. And then again after the next date, and again after Starbucks. It was clear that Carlos liked him, and Cecil knew that Carlos was aware of his feelings. He wondered at the hold-up, but he wouldn't force anything. He never would.

He was growing curious, though.

Say what you will about scientists, but writers could certainly give them a run for their money when it came to curiosity. They were fountains of tenacity as well as making things up, all in the name of documenting the human condition. And Cecil was, of course, no exception.

So, despite his seemingly endless patience, Cecil lay in quiet darkness, and wondered.

* * *

"I'm beginning to feel as though you distrust me, Cecil," Dr. Hidge said one afternoon, after the clock on the wall stole fifteen minutes with uneven ticks. "Why is that?"

The writer shrugged, eyes tracing the line of her impeccable hair.

"I never said that I didn't trust you."

"That doesn't mean very much," she said, cocking her head to the side a bit. "I can read it on you."

"That's a bit menacing."

"I don't mean for it to be, of course," Dr. Hidge said, voice maybe a bit rough in her annoyance. "But as your therapist, I'd like for there to be some modicum of trust between us. How did that happen with Dr. Mendoza?"

Cecil was briefly tempted to say something a bit sarcastic, to say that her methods wouldn't work because she wasn't Carlos and she didn't have perfect hair and he wasn't in love with her. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh.

"We sort of...traded answers."

"So every time he asked you a question, you asked him one in return?"

"Yes."

"All right, let's try that. I'll answer anything that isn't too unprofessional, and we'll see how that goes. What do you think?"

Cecil shrugged his assent. "Doesn't bother me."

"All right, I'll go first: when did these delusions start?"

"About eight months ago. You know that."

"Yes, but I wanted a sort of baseline. To be sure that you'd answer honestly."

"I have no reason to lie."

"And you have no reason not to trust me. Your turn."

"What's your first name?"

"Trish. Setting your own baseline?"

"Yes."

She asked him about his medical history, whether he or his family had a history of mental disorders or anything, delving deep into what she was certain was the writer's fractured psyche. She took an obscene amount of notes in the little red notebook which had become a staple in their meetings. He wished he could read it, see just what she thought was wrong with him, but the one time he'd expressed an interest, she'd shut him down with a stern look.

"Doctors study under other doctors, right? Psychiatrists too? Who did you study under?" he asked after telling her about the most recent flier to have shown up in his mail. It was a coupon for the Night Vale Subway, offering five-dollar foot-longs and free tobacco cookies.

"Her name was Dr. Pamela Winchell. She was great, one of the most impressive—Cecil? Cecil, are you okay?"

"Winchell?" Cecil fairly hissed, feeling the blood drain from his face. Part of his brain tried to rationalize, called it a coincidence, mumbled things about Pamela Winchell being a perfectly ordinary name. The rest of his mind, though, was a roiling mass of horror.

He'd grown well used to seeing angels and the Glow Cloud in his reality, and getting mail from his imagined town. But, knowing that he'd made the Trish Hidge of Night Vale a staffer for Mayor Pamela Winchell, only to find out that the real Trish Hidge had studied under Dr. Pamela Winchell was almost too much.

"Mr. Palmer, are you all right?" He took a spluttering, centering breath.

"Yes," he hissed out. "I'm... I'm okay."

She nodded curtly, still eyeing him warily.

"Good. Um, if you don't mind, I think ending the appointment a bit early today might be a good idea. Don't you?"

"Yeah," he fairly whispered.

"I won't charge you for the full hour. Are you sure you're all right? It's just... I've been a psychiatrist for a long time. I've dealt with phobic patients, people with extraordinary anxiety issues, PTSD, you name it. I have _never_ seen anyone with such a look of terror in my entire life. Do you know Pamela?"

"Not really," he breathed. It was the truth, too. He was a figment of his imagination—how well could one know someone they'd never meet, solely due the fact that they were imaginary?

"Well, something about her seemed to trigger quite the fear response. We should touch on that next week."

"Yes, yes, all right," he said dully, as though in a slow-moving dream. He got up from the cushy, velvet-covered chair, thanked Dr. Hidge for her time, and took so much care to walk slowly to his car. He kept his eyes firmly on his shoes and the asphalt passing beneath them, afraid of what he might see if he looked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be getting a little bothered with my own characterization of Cecil, but I'm going to ignore that till this thing is done, okay.


	5. Gravity Don't Have a Thing to Do (With You or Me)

"I don't know what to do, Carlos," Cecil said into the phone when he got back to his apartment. His voice was frantic, barely containing the deep fear. "This is different. My characters are based on real people, Carlos. _Not_ the other way around!"

Then, mute horror, darker than the fear already filling him up, slid through his veins.

"Have you seen Dana lately? Has she been showing up at work?"

"Cecil, she works three days a week. I won't see her till Tuesday."

"But the Dana in Night Vale is in the Dog Park—what if something happens to your Dana?"

"It's probably a coincidence, Cecil. Please, just breathe for me. You sound like you might have a panic attack. Do you want me to come over?"

"Please," he choked out.

"Okay, I'll be there soon. Just breathe, all right? Slowly. Distract yourself. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Okay."

They hung up, and Cecil did as he was told, breathing deeply and evenly, sinking his attention into a book.

When Carlos arrived, he looked worried half out of his mind, and it was all for Cecil and that was beautiful.

"Are you okay?" he asked, in lieu of a greeting. "Are you all right?"

And he had to admit that, yes, he was. Carlos was a balm, a benediction, a cure. He only needed to swirl into Cecil's orbit and he was perfectly okay.

"Yes," Cecil breathed, and though his voice shook a bit, it was true. "Sit with me, please."

So Carlos sat on the sofa beside Cecil, shoulders brushing and knees touching and hands tangling together immediately. The gentle wall of heat of another person was always welcome, especially when it came from someone as perfect as Carlos.

"It's probably a coincidence, Cecil," the doctor said softly, pitching his voice for the quiet surrounding them. "And I'm sure Dana's fine."

"Do you think any of it's real?" Cecil whispered, resting his head against Carlos's shoulder.

There was a long, heavy pause before Carlos spoke.

"I saw an angel after our first date." The confession was soft and simple, a statement of fact uncolored by fear. "And I've seen hooded figures around. And I've started getting mail from Night Vale. It's real, Cecil."

There was another pause, this one gentler than the last.

"Do you get a ton of fliers telling you to vote for a five-headed dragon for mayor?"

This startled a bright laugh from Cecil, flaring in the quiet like sparks.

That was beyond comforting, truth be told. He squeezed Carlos's hand, pleased to have him as his lifeline to reality.

"Why won't you kiss me?" he found himself asking. And he wanted to be horribly embarrassed by asking, by the incredibly rude nature of the question, but it was something he had to know. Reality, or the possible lack thereof, was not nearly as important.

"I'm...not good at relationships. At people," Carlos breathed, words brushing through Cecil's hair. "And I really like you, Cecil. I'm afraid of messing this up."

Cecil turned his head to look at the perfect being who chose _him_. Carlos said so many smart things, so many beautiful things, so many things that were perhaps a tiny bit absurd but wonderful all the same. That he was afraid of messing things up with Cecil was nearly untenable.

"Can I kiss you then?" the writer asked softly.

Carlos grinned, and everything about him was _perfect_.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

While the emotional aspects of a relationship were tricky, especially for the man who was so skilled in the ways of the human psyche, the physical aspects were second nature. That much was obvious as Cecil lay with his head on Carlos's chest, ear pressed lightly against the dip of his sternum, listening to his heart echo through bone and flesh. He was sure that the fluttery muscle kept better time than any clock, though he wouldn't say as much to his darling, darling Carlos sleeping beneath him. At least not now, not while his eyelashes were dark fans across the tops of his cheekbones and his breath was a gentle rush.

And then, quiet words rumbling through Carlos's chest, a revelation of wakefulness.

"You know, before you, I hadn't gone on a date in six years," he said. "I was never really bothered, first mostly concerned with finishing up my degree and getting my practice up and running and all that. And you know what?"

"What?" Cecil asked, tilting his head so that their lips brushed so softly in the still dark.

"I feel like I waited for you, and I'm kind of glad."

Lips touched softly, a flickering kiss turning into something a bit more like a proper fire, and they turned into beings of sweat and skin and heat once again.

* * *

"Why don't you have any real bread, Cecil?" Carlos groaned in the morning, holding up a loaf of potato bread and looking forlorn. Cecil grinned and plucked the package from the other man's hand, dusting a kiss over his lips.

"Preference, partly. And, uh, there've been some bad experiences with wheat."

Understanding dawned on Carlos's face, and Cecil fell in love all over again.

"You're a celiac?"

"What? No! Wheat is dangerous, Carlos—it turns into venomous snakes, or malevolent spirits. Plus, it was banned by City Council."

The clouds returned over the psychiatrist's face.

"Cecil..." he said slowly, tasting the words, checking for impurities before letting the fall from his lips. "I... I don't want to deny the reality of these things. I _can't_ deny them. But this is just like the pens and pencils. Those may be laws in Night Vale, but they're not laws here."

Cecil's heart metaphorically performed a number of aerial feats as the words sank in. Carlos wasn't telling him that none of it was real. Just the night before, he'd admitted to the existence of Night Vale, seeping into his life, likely an infection borne of holding hands and meeting eyes. No, this beautiful, perfect being was asking Cecil to get real bread by saying that he wasn't under the jurisdiction of Night Vale, and Cecil hadn't ever been so incredibly love in his entire life. A grin lit up over his face like street lamps flickering on in the night.

"Let's start small: let's get sandwiches on wheat bread from Subway. See where it goes from there."

And Carlos was smiling and laughing and agreeing, and arms were winding securely around Cecil's waist, and he was sure he'd combust from the force of the love burning in his bones and it was absolutely beautiful.


	6. I Made a Tidal Wave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have written this with more sleep in my system. Oops. Whatever.

On Tuesday, just after the clock on his computer read half past three, Cecil received a phone call. Carlos was on the other end of the line, obviously doing his best to keep calm as he began to panic. Cecil could taste the anxiety in Carlos's voice, and before he even got to his point, Cecil absolutely knew exactly what Carlos had to say. He'd been expecting this, really.

"Dana didn't come in today," the doctor said carefully, though there was a frantic edge to his words. "I know I shouldn't worry for a few more days, but I can't stop thinking about what you said and—I'm worried, Cecil."

It was strange to be on the receiving end of quiet panic, Cecil mused. Not entirely a _bad_ strange, but strange nonetheless.

"The Dana in Night Vale is relatively okay, if that's any consolation," the writer offered weakly. There was a long pause, the silence broken with only the harsh scrape of breath in the doctor's throat.

"What if this Dana isn't okay?" he whispered. "I don't think I could bear the horror of knowing that."

Cold, grey skies settled in the pit of Cecil's stomach at that thought. Though he wrote out the story of the citizens of Night Vale, he didn't exactly sit there and decide how each piece would fit in with another. It felt like he was recording truths rather than publishing fiction.

"Truth be told, dear Carlos, I don't think I'd be able to bear the guilt."

Were they different people, Carlos would have rushed to assure Cecil that it wasn't his fault, not in any way. He would have insisted that it was just a coincidence, or perhaps he would have assumed the blame himself. But they were a scientist and a writer, men of truth and illumination. Carlos would never outright tell Cecil that he was at fault for Dana's disappearance, but he wouldn't let the possibility fade into the ether either.

Instead, there was a heavy sigh, laden with resignation and doubt, all of the woes of a long day clinging to the inner walls of Carlos's mouth.

"Do you think she's safe? Wherever she is?"

"I don't know," Cecil admitted, fingers constricting lightly around his phone. "I hope so."

* * *

Cecil did as he always did as he awaited news of the missing receptionist. He spun words out across the keyboard, watching them crawl across his computer screen and warn of the dangers of lead poisoning. After all this time, he still didn't know where the words came from, or if they were even really his at all. He still didn't really want to question it, but perhaps... Perhaps it was time. Perhaps it was beyond time.

He remembered that day so long ago when he had discovered that something was censoring him. They weren't exactly generic censors, either, which prompted him to believe that someone, somewhere, was actually reading what he had to say.

Someone who knew about Night Vale.

His hands trembled on the keys as they had when he'd made the fateful choice to see someone about his splintering reality. Slowly, he typed out words he desperately hoped would be read.

_Is Intern Dana safe in the Dog Park?_

He bypassed the blinking cursor in the title box, pressing the Publish button and posting only those eight words. He waited for the screen to load, desperation clawing in his throat.

Deep sighs, gusting out from the very bottoms of his lungs, filtered through his mouth at the sight of those stark black boxes crossing out and hiding the existence of Night Vale's dog park.

 _Is Intern Dana safe in the_ [THOUGHT CRIME PLEASE RETRACT] _?_

He was unsure whether to smile or cry, and the noise that burst from his mouth was an odd tangle of sharp laughter and a fearful shout. He immediately went to edit the post, and that strange bark fell from his lips like a leaden weight at the note beneath his original words.

_THE GIRL IS FINE. SHE HAS THE FLU. ALSO, THE INTERN IS ALIVE._

The noises that burst from Cecil's lungs started as something rough and tinny, but they morphed into peals of laughter, ringing like broken cathedral bells. Somewhere in the back of his head, he heard a different laugh, higher, muffled through layers of cloth and water and abrasive sand. It was familiar in the oddest sense, like the feel of bones that had never been outside of his skin. There was a name hovering on the inside of his skull, bright and colorful and petaled like a daisy. The clatter of bowling pins surrounded the sound, the dull ache of a friend he had forgotten.

And as soon as the laughter had started up, it stopped, cut off abruptly. Nothing really interrupted him, but it had begun to sound broken, and perhaps a bit maniacal.

It had sounded like mourning.

* * *

 

The card that had come from Night Vale's Sheriff's Secret Police lived in his wallet. It was on heavy, matte black stock, and the letters shone with something that was perhaps a bit phosphorescent. When things got to be too much, and when Carlos was too far away, he'd pull it out of his wallet and just hold it in his hand, the edges of it biting into the fleshiest parts of his palm. It was a touchstone, a reminder that his reality was, in fact, reality. He wasn't losing it. Rather, something big and ominous and smelling faintly of vanilla was building up around him.

More and more, he found aspects of Night Vale dripping into his life, filling any and all empty spaces. Though Carlos's receptionist and Intern Dana's namesake had gone back to work, Cecil still worried so much about the other names that were shared between real life and Night Vale. He made up ( _recorded_ , whispered a scratchy voice behind leather) every single name after what had happened with Dana. There was something strange, and he wasn't sure if he maybe had a superpower or if it was something else.

Maybe Night Vale had a jealous god.

All that mattered, though, was that Carlos in Night Vale was bright and alive, and Carlos in the real world was beautiful and perfect and fond of holding hands. That kept Cecil going, more than anything else. Perhaps, after the fear that had begun to seep into the spaces between letters became obvious in Night Vale, it had decided to let him have something good. Because that was the danger of putting people into stories: they didn't always survive.

That was precisely the same trouble with real life, funny enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like we're nearing the end. I'm only about 60% sure. You know how it is. If you have theories, I will neither confirm nor deny, but it might be fun to hear about them. Thanks for indulging me thus far, guys!


	7. Just to Get Close to You

Cecil was shaking bodily as he wrote the scene. It poured from his fingertips like blood, fast and dark and horrible, smearing across the keyboard.

Carlos was dying. It wasn't the real Carlos, but it almost was. This scientist lived in his head and in his screen and sometimes felt more real than the perfect psychiatrist who would be on his way over once his last appointment finished up. This Carlos was dying, and Cecil wanted smudge the words out of existence, but every time he got rid of them, they just came back, the same as before. Always the same, always an echo of a report of Carlos losing so much blood, losing his _life_. He was dying, and Cecil couldn't do a thing.

At four in the afternoon, the other Carlos, the real Carlos, called.

"Hello," Cecil said.

"Are you okay? You sound off," Carlos, the real Carlos, said. Cecil could imagine him squinting and frowning and studying him through distance and walls. He hastily scrubbed the tears from his cheeks, letting out a shaky laugh.

"Nothing, nothing, I'm fine. I just get too attached to my characters."

Carlos sighed, and it sounded like relief. That was expected of a writer, wasn't it? Crying over character deaths? Crying over real deaths? Crying because they were helpless?

"I'm sorry, dear," Carlos said, and he meant it, and Cecil continued to spiral helplessly in love.

"It's okay, it really is. When are you going to get here? When's your last appointment?"

"It just ended, actually," Carlos told him. "I was thinking that we'd get lunch. Maybe Thai?"

"That sounds wonderful, Carlos."

"Great! So I'll be there in ten minutes. Please be dressed, _mi amor_."

Cecil scoffed slightly, but Carlos had a point. He was still in his pajamas, and while he didn't care _too_ much about societal views on style and fashion and all that jazz, he still cared. They said their goodbyes and Cecil bounded into his bedroom to get ready, dying characters tucked safely away in the back of his head.

* * *

"So where are we going?" Cecil asked as he slid into the doctor's economical but attractive hybrid coupe. Before answering, Carlos leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Cecil's temple. The writer's blush was immediate and hot as it spread across his face.

"I was thinking Emerald Palace," he said, settling back into his seat. Cecil nodded curtly, sure and content. After Carlos pulled out of Cecil's driveway and started down the street, their fingers tangled together on the console between them.

Things were quiet and nice, static crackling through the airwaves of Carlos's radio. Occasionally, something filtered through the static, like water through sand. They were bits of dialogue, and in the back of his head, Cecil was able to name it as The Void and You, one of Night Vale's less popular shows.

"It's always coming through," Carlos said, and Cecil wasn't quite sure if that was a complaint or a fact. It certainly could have been both. "More and more often. If these are Night Vale shows, I can only imagine what the rest of the town's like."

Cecil's face tipped into a huge grin and a bright laugh, but it was snatched away and stretched into horror and fear and screaming screaming screaming. Metal and glass and light and smoke swallowed everything in a terrible _crunch!_ of sound and broken bones. Candy Apple Red tried to take the space of Carlos's navy blue car, tried to eat them alive.

Only bits and pieces filtered through Cecil's currently broken awareness. Sunlight screaming off the surface of the truck's hood ornament. Blood pooling in his line of sight. Hooded figures gathering on the street corner. Hysterical shouts and screams and cries of, " _Are they dead?!_ " Carlos slumped across the wheel, the horn blaring, blood seeping from a huge wound carved across his head. Pain, searing and bright and horrible and, oh, that wasn't good, not at all. A mangled piece of glass and metal had been thrust into his belly, and blood was staining his favorite shirt and masters of it all, it fucking _hurt_.

He tried to gasp out Carlos's name, but found only a wet, rasping gurgle instead of words.

No, that wasn't good at all.

And then, before he could wonder any more about whether his darling psychiatrist was still alive, darkness opened its mouth wide and swallowed him whole.

He drifted.

* * *

_Is it alive?_

_Not_ it _. He. Is he alive?_

_It is the Voice. It is an it._

_Do not argue. We must see if it is alive. The Voice and the Scientist. They cannot be dead._

Heavy rustling, like cloth slipping across darkness. Perhaps that's precisely what that sound was. One never knew. Nor did Two, or Three, or Four. They had other names, probably, but this was much easier that The Hooded Figure Who Openly Steals Babies, and names of that nature.

Distraction. No.

Swarming around the screaming man and the Voice and the Scientist. Except they were neither the Voice nor the Scientist. Not yet. Not here. Here, they were Other, with warm red blood and histories. They did not know what they were, and now, it was clear that that was a bad idea. Not a stupid one, City Council was never stupid, but it was not a good one. That much everyone could admit to.

_What if they are dead?_

_Then we all die._

_We cannot die._

_We do what we do that is not death but is not living._

Swarming like insects, buzzing as well. Devouring light and the man now too terrified to scream. Buzzing, humming, static. Tendrils of shadow spreading open, sprawling out, rushing forward like things unbound. They were, of course, precisely that. Things no longer bound by anything. Bodies, civil laws, laws of science, nothing. They were the darkness which swallowed the Voice and the Scientist whole. They devoured the imposters who believed so completely. They measured pulses, weak and fluttering and growing weaker. They tasted blood, hot and red and metallic.

_It is iron. In the blood. We wanted to know._

_We did not want to know. We do not care._

_They still have iron in their blood._

They drifted.

* * *

It was cold. He wasn't sure what _it_ was, but it was freezing. Maybe not the kind with ice or snow or actual freezing, but it was intensely cold all the same. He couldn't breathe, not really, though there was the sensation of drawing breath, of lungs filling. It was dark, where he was, and silent. He pondered on the phrase _silent as the grave_ and remembered heat and pain. The sharp, metallic, glassy pain that radiated through his whole body like the spiderweb cracks of a windshield.

He remembered pain and heat and breathing, and a hand warm in his.

Carlos froze and did not breathe and remembered.

He drifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formal apologies for this chapter. Have all of them.


	8. You Are the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've totally been on a roll these past couple days. This chapter gets very fluffy very quickly, and I hope it meets your approval, my dear readers.

Gasping for breath like a drowning man, he opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was his ceiling. That was nothing strange in itself, as it was usually the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning. There wasn't even anything very interesting attached to or coming out of his ceiling. Just flat white paint reflecting the murky teal light of the morning.

There was something he was forgetting, something important. It was beautiful, or maybe it was horrible, or perhaps it was both. That was entirely possible, and maybe a bit more likely than it being one or the other.

The first thing he felt was the soft cotton of his sheets brushing against his clammy skin. They were worn and cool, a small comfort in the thick, dry heat that was currently brushing in through the open window. There was nothing quite like the hot, hot, _hot_ desert climate, especially in the summer, and no matter how he thought he felt about it, he loved it.

The first thing he heard was the low drone of helicopters. It was a familiar sound, a wall of background noise that had always been there. It was the soundtrack to existence, and it wasn't that awful a sound. Yes, it was fairly loud, but it was nice. Mostly. Certainly comforting, and maybe only a bit menacing.

The first thing he remembered was something that might or might not have happened long ago, something that hurt terribly and left him unable to breathe. There were hooded figures, metallic sounds, and someone very dear to him. He remembered that they could have built a life together. There were Saturday nights with legs woven together on the sofa and movies flickering on the TV. There were two mugs of coffee on the kitchen table in the mornings, one half littered with pens and notebooks, the other covered in scientific journals and sticky notes. There were phone calls and voices weighed down with "I love you" on the tip of each tongue. There were the makings of a life he found he very much wanted.

Lying in bed, pressed to the cool cotton by the heavy hands of oppressive heat, Cecil knew that he was forgetting something very, very important.

* * *

He didn't know why he took the job. His position was very good, and he loved the university he worked at. But, truth be told, when something like adventure came careening around a corner and bellowing is name, he wasn't going to ignore it. Besides, it wasn't like he had anything keeping him here. So he packed a U-Haul trailer with his meager belongings and followed a caravan of semis and vans and cars and lovingly worn pickup trucks to a strange little town in the desert.

The drive was long and tedious and allowed his mind to wander. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, frantically waving its arms about and trying to get him to remember. Remember _what_?

There were vague notions of dinners in fast food restaurants, fluorescent light skimming across the curves and angles and planes of a face he very much loved. There were hazy thoughts of notes taped to mirrors and cups in his handwriting and someone else's handwriting, all proclaiming perfection or saying they'd be a bit late for their lunch date or simply smiling with sketchy countenances. There were foggy ideas of someone he missed very much, undercut with tremendous heat and pain.

He passed a green metal sign, the words NIGHT VALE CITY LIMIT printed in neat, shining letters. Perhaps a hundred yards further was another sign, a rich purple this time, welcoming him to Night Vale. The elevation was there on each sign (87 feet above sea level), but no population. That was interesting, though not much of a scientific curiosity.

As he and the rest of the crew threaded into the town, there was an odd and nearly imperceptible feeling of a lock sliding into place, of the last puzzle piece being fit in, of _home_.

Carlos couldn't explain it, but Night Vale left a hollow ache in the center of his chest, and he was afraid that he'd never find the piece that fit in.

* * *

A new man came into town. He had a perfect and beautiful haircut, and a perfect and beautiful coat. He had teeth like a military cemetery, and a lopsided grin and thick glasses and a smudge of stubble across that beautiful jaw. His name was Carlos, and Cecil fell in love instantly.

* * *

 

The radio host was odd, and kind of frightening, but decidedly sweet. He was nothing but complimentary, and he _did_ have several contact numbers that might prove useful. The first night he heard Cecil on the radio, Carlos fell in love immediately.

* * *

Their courtship was slow and delicate and distant. Well, on Carlos's side, at least. He'd never been very good at, well, _people_ , so Cecil maintained the relationship mostly alone. Not that he minded, of course. He'd wait forever for perfect, beautiful Carlos to look up, sun catching on those dark eyes and illuminating them from the inside out. He'd wait for that lopsided grin to stretch like light across the desert and understanding to dawn. He would wait until the inevitable end for Carlos to love him back, and if he never did, then that would be all right.

On the night of the Bowling Alley Debacle, as he lay there in a pool of his own blood, minuscule people surrounding and still attacking him, his second thought was that he did not want to die underneath a bowling alley.

His first was of Cecil.

And then, he'd been brought back to life, or maybe pulled back from the brink of death, and he found himself sitting beside Cecil on the hood of his car, the warmth and shape of the soft body beside him intrinsically familiar. He'd never really imagined what touching Cecil would be like, but now the aching hole in his heart said that there had been no need. He knew that body well, and though that thought sent a hot blush to his face, it was comforting regardless.

Cecil, his head resting lightly on Carlos's shoulder, felt properly at peace for the first time in a very long time. Their first date was kind of awkward, and Carlos berated himself for being so socially inept, but things progressed beautifully. They progressed easily, all of it underlined with a strange familiarity that they wouldn't ever question.

There was no need.

* * *

Cecil had turned fifty years old a week ago, and still, they loved each other like they were still in their early thirties. Carlos had passed that particular milestone a couple years back, and he liked to tease his remarkably vain husband about how old he was getting. They liked to joke about how they were getting old and fat together, but always with the same knowing smiles that said that that was exactly what was happening.

He wasn't sure what had prompted it, but as they were twined together on the bed, clothes and faces wrinkled with sleep and late afternoon sunlight slanting through the curtains, he remembered.

Their names hadn't changed, nor had they, not really. Except there were things that were just a little off. They had met in a grocery store, which was wrong, because they'd met at the town meeting a Carlos had called for. He'd been a writer, except he'd never been anything but a radio broadcaster, just as Carlos had never even expressed much interest in psychology. There were still angels (which weren't real (even though they _were_ real)) and hooded figures and letters and fliers and Big Rico's coupons.

It all tangled together, reality and unreality, or maybe two different realities.

When Carlos woke from his nap, after pressing a playful kiss to the tip of Cecil's nose, they talked about it. He remembered too.

"You'd knocked me down in the grocery store, in that other life," he said with a smile, face slightly smushed against the pillow.

"I wrote about Dana, and we were afraid because she'd missed a few days of work," Cecil whispered, face equally smushed. It would be creased and puffy when they went back into life, and Cecil would pout, and Carlos would kiss him and say he was perfect all the same.

"But we died," one whispered as the sun began to set. Soon, they would get up and smooth themselves out and get dinner ready.

"Or maybe we survived," the other sighed, light turning fiery and rich. After dinner, they would sit together on the couch and watch TV.

And it didn't matter whether they had lived and found themselves in an alternate universe, or whether they had died and found themselves in different lives, or whether it had been an odd connected dream. Cecil and Carlos, Carlos and Cecil, the Voice and the Scientist had found each other and built a life together. There were photo albums, which provided the necessary protection from existential blackouts and also fond memories the Faceless Old Woman liked to cradle in her fingertips. There were weekly dinner dates at Big Rico's pizza. There were well wishes every year on their wedding anniversary, and even if one of them lost count of how many years it had been, the city itself never would. They'd watched Night Vale build and rebuild and fall apart and rebuild, sometimes in the space of a day, and they lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you're wondering what the whole general deal was, here's sort of my main idea for the fic. I'm putting it here, rather than in the story itself, because I wanted whatever interpretation you came up with to be right. I guess I'm pretty benevolent.  
> Through this whole thing, I felt like I couldn't stress enough the fact that this wasn't all in Cecil's head. He doesn't really understand this, and he likely never will, but Cecil is the sole point of intersection between the Night Vale plane of existence, and the "real world". Through him, the world gets things like existential terror and jellyfish, while Night Vale gets Target and stuff. Cecil thinks he creates this world, which is why he's so worried about his sanity.  
> He was put into this world, sort of, by City Council to keep the city alive for a while. When he nearly died, however, they realized that it had never been a very good idea, so he and Carlos were brought back into the original plane, though at a different point of time. While the Night Vale world is the real one for the two of them, that doesn't make their lives prior any less significant.  
> I hope that made any sense at all, I'm not running on nearly enough sleep.  
> Anyway, I really hope you guys enjoyed this!  
> You can hang out with me on my [tumblr](http://litbythestars.tumblr.com/) if you like. I can almost guarantee that it's much happier, much more often.


End file.
